


60 beats per minute

by jvo_taiski



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Assassin AU, M/M, implied sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27071428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jvo_taiski/pseuds/jvo_taiski
Summary: Blaise Zabini gets sent a boy, and instructions.He's to train Theodore Nott for one suicide mission. And he's not to fail.And perhaps it hasn’t bled through Theo’s mind yet, the knowledge that there is a very finite ending to his life. A line. A set number of minutes and seconds he’s got left, a set number of times his heart has left to beat.
Relationships: Theodore Nott/Blaise Zabini
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	60 beats per minute

**Author's Note:**

> i made myself sad and wrote this  
> have fun

Theodore Nott is tall, slim, gangly. He’s young. His skin is milky-white and unblemished, not even a scar or a spot, and his hair is dark brown, like mahogany. It’s tousled and falls artlessly into his eyes, which are wide and dark and framed with unfairly long lashes. His face is narrow, but not awfully so, and his cheekbones are high, but not awfully so either. There’s a bit of a hook to his nose and his lips are unnaturally red, like he’s been biting them with nerves, and seem to be set in a permanent pout. In other words, Theodore Nott is really very pretty and really very unnoticeable and kind of perfect for the job at hand.

“You’re going to die,” Blaise informs him, as a way of greeting, and Theodore startles in an amusing way, but recovers surprisingly quickly as he squints into the shadows, trying to catch a glimpse of him.

“Oh?”

“You haven’t read the brief?” he steps out into the dim light and crosses the room in exactly three strides, before settling on the dark red couch opposite Theo, crossing an ankle over his knee.

“I wasn’t given a brief.”

“No matter,” Blaise reaches for the bottle between them, already opened by the butler. The red liquid swills around the bottom as he pours a glass, throwing eerie patterns of light onto the dark wood of the table. “Care for some wine?”

Theo raises an eyebrow. “I’m not old enough to drink. I turn eighteen next month.”

And Blaise actually laughs at that, the sound rough and jarring in the dimly-lit room—it dies away too quickly as the cynical snort is absorbed into velvet throws and the heavily carpeted floor. “You’ll be dead in two, so I highly doubt that matters.”

The traces of a smile appear around his mouth, pout finally relaxing as he accepts the glass from Blaise. His fingers are cold, and only shake a little.

“So,” says Blaise, once he’s watched Theo take a cautious sip and wince, screwing up his nose. “What do you think?”

“About what? The wine, or about dying in a couple months, as you keep casually mentioning?” he asks, a sardonic smile gracing his lips.

It makes Blaise huff another laugh. “Start with the wine. It’s a Masseto, made entirely of Merlot.”

“It tastes like shit.” Theo shrugs.

“It’s the finest wine in Italy. Very expensive. Seems like we’re wasting it on you.” Blaise regards him over his glass, letting his amusement show.

“Believe me, you are. Maybe my father was doing me a favour, not letting me drink this whole time.”

“It depends on how you look at it, Theodore. Wine is an acquired taste and being sufficiently intoxicated can be plenty enjoyable.”

He watches Theo take another swig of wine and swallow, grimacing. “I’d rather live the last of my days drinking milk. And if I’d known I would die, I might have made an effort to hug my mother one last time.”

There it is, then. The traces of resentment finally bleeding through. It’s supposed to be Blaise’s job to teach him what he has to do to succeed in his mission, and obey every order. But it seems unfair to send him in blind. No, better to tell him outright—he’ll figure it out soon enough. It’s not an assassination, it’s a suicide mission.

And perhaps it hasn’t bled through Theo’s mind yet, the knowledge that there is a very finite ending to his life. A line. A set number of minutes and seconds he’s got left, a set number of times his heart will beat.

“So,” says Blaise, once Theo’s made it through his first ever glass of wine. “Your mission.”

“What about it?”

“How much do you know?”

“Nothing. Apart from my target, and that apparently, I’m going to die.” He says it with a sneer, and it’s a good attempt, but he can’t quite hide the wobble in his voice.

“Yes,” Blaise refills his glass. “Whoever’s masterminded the brief is a genius. And unfortunately for you, your life wasn’t a priority to them, although if completed correctly, doesn’t have a chance of failure. Missing the target, that is to say. Which is why they’ve sent someone inexperienced to do the job, but with so little training, I suppose. You’re going to die.”

Unsurprisingly, Theo doesn’t offer an opinion.

“I’d assume it’s something to do with your background that makes you valuable for the assignment. Any political ties, Theodore? You’re rich. Your father is important. You shouldn’t be here. Did someone in your family do something they shouldn’t have?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing, much. But it does help me, knowing why you’re here. Your motives. What’s in it for you?”

Theo shrugs again, the pout back on those lips and the single glass of wine dusting a faint flush over his cheekbones. He’s slouched on the red velvet, legs spread and suit jacket wrinkling. “The Dark Lord made it fairly clear that I get the target, or a lot of people die.”

“Punishment for your family?”

“Oh, not that I’m aware. My mother and father expect me to come back, and so did I, up until half an hour ago. But like you said, someone’s pulling the strings out there, and if it’s beneficial that the son of a Lord commits regicide, then so be it. Why?”

“Partly curiosity, and partly needing to know whether I’ll be required to resort to more… drastic measures of training. You know. To make sure you don’t step out of line, and the like.”

Theodore laughs, and it’s harsh but trembles all the same. “No need to worry, sir. I’m more than willing to devote the rest of my life training to die.”

“To save your parents?”

“Partly,” he says, amicably. “My mother, mostly—father couldn’t wait to offer me up. It was going to be my cousin, Draco Malfoy, doing this originally, but he escaped before they got the chance.”

“Yes, of course. Narcissa is a clever woman, to be able to flee. Lucius, I’ve heard, wasn’t so lucky.”

“Poor uncle.” Theodore examines his nails, and Blaise can’t help noticing the rough build of his hands. They doesn’t match the almost delicate sculpt of his features. “It’s a shame he went hunting when he did. Though it was foolish of him to try, what when it’s wolf season.”

He’s well-versed in talking in euphemisms and subtleties and apart from his occasional startling lapses into more vulgar language, he speaks like nobility should. Theodore knows how to play the game, then, which is probably why he took the news of his impending death so well. Even though there’s no need to tip-toe around the topic anymore, old habits die hard and Blaise likes it, likes the two-step rhythm of a carefully executed conversation, both cynical and serious and just the right touch amusing. “My condolences. I’m sure your mother was most upset to hear about the loss of her brother.”

“Actually, she took it quite well. She mentioned that she couldn’t help but expect it, what with the questionable decisions he’s made lately, although she does seem hesitant to go near the woods anymore. It’s to be expected, but it’s a shame—she used to enjoy the occasional horse ride with my fiancée.”

“You were engaged?” Despite himself, Blaise is intrigued. Theo is young, too young to be sent to die, even if in a sense, Blaise started his career as soon as he could walk.

“Yeah. To Daphne Greengrass, the late Duke of Norfolk’s daughter. Actually, I believe the guild were responsible for his assassination?”

The corners of Blaise’s mouth quirk upwards again. “Correct. I believe the official story was blood poisoning. Whatever gave you the suspicion?”

“People talk, around court.” He waves his hand dismissively. “I think a fair handful of nobility have made their way into the Dark Lord’s pocket, what with rumours of treason making their way underneath closed doors.”

There’s a pause, and Theo frowns a little. He’s surprisingly hard to read.

“What’s your name, then? If you’re the only person I’ll see until the end of my days?” he finishes with a sarcastic lilt on the end of his voice and Blaise wonders if he regrets coming here, and not just making a run for it like his cousin, even if his parents and fiancée would have been at the receiving end of the consequences.

“Blaise Zabini. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’ll do my best to make your last weeks somewhat enjoyable.”

It should be easy. The boy knows what he’s doing and why he’s here, and he’s well brought up. Obedient. Or at least smart enough to do what he’s told. But Blaise can’t help the familiar clench in the bottom of his stomach that he feels every time he trains someone just a bit too young and a bit too easy to talk to.

* * *

When Blaise was little, he was vaguely aware that his mother was the strongest person he ever knew and that she’d always be there to protect him, even if her eyes were cold and her tongue sharp and her beautiful face ageless. Once, in school, he heard a little girl say something to her mother and she’d said it back. Then he’d made the mistake of repeating it to his mother.

“No, you don’t,” she says, dark eyes looking impassive as ever, but the dark red lipstick on her mouth twists into something like disapproval. “Love gets you nowhere. It makes you weak.”

“Did it make you weak, mummy?”

“Mother.”

“Sorry. Mother. Did love make you weak?”

“Does it look like I was ever weak?”

“No, mother.”

She smiles at that, something rare that Blaise treasures. He’s too little to understand, but he craves more of it. “Good. But I do have one weakness. Do you want to know what it is?”

“You told me not to trust people, mum.”

“Very true. Well done. But I trust you, and I’m going to tell you a secret.”

Little Blaise pauses, eyes wide, and scrambles onto his mother’s lap. For once, she doesn’t scold him for dirtying the silk on her dress, instead taking his small hand in her own and rubbing a thumb over it. Blaise likes her nails—they’re dark red, just like her lips. It’s a timeless colour, a classic that Mrs Zabini looks effortlessly good in.

“I love you, Blaise.”

His eyes widen and she smiles again, and for some reason it makes her seem both older and younger, and not so immortal anymore and it’s the first time Blaise sees that she’s right. Emotions do make people vulnerable.

“Really?”

“Yes. But you mustn’t tell anyone. And you mustn’t love me.”

“Why not?”

“Because love makes people do silly things.”

He tried, he really did. But in the end he’ll never be able to not hold his mother higher than anything else, to make her proud even if he’ll come back day on day with hollow eyes with another corpse imprinted in his mind.

In some ways, he wonders if Theo’s a little like him, even if they come from such different places. Theo, with his cynical smile and careful words brewing with resentment, taught to pander to the people around him in his parents’ perfectly orchestrated dance.

He’s impassive as Blaise shows him how to wield a knife and Blaise can’t help wondering if he’s seen this sort of thing before. His palms are rougher than a young Lord’s should be.

“Fencing,” he shrugs, in response. “I’m decent with a rapier.”

So of course, Blaise makes him demonstrate and of course, he’s right. Not as good as a trained assassin of course—Theo’s been trained for the sport, not to kill. But still. It makes Blaise’s life a little easier as they spar across the training room, and he even manages to disarm Blaise when he’s distracted wondering how Theo manages to be so graceful and graceless at the same time.

They’re both so startled when it happens that they stop, giving Blaise time to tackle him and pin him in a chokehold.

“Focus, Theo.”

“Shut up, Blaise. You were distracted enough yourself.” He manages to sound snarky even when gasping for breath on the floor.

* * *

Theo breaks on the 4th night, which is impressive, all things considered.

And surprisingly enough, it’s completely by accident that Blaise finds him. He’s on his way to the bathroom, footsteps quiet as a cat’s on the thick carpet, when he hears it. There’s a soft sob from Theo’s room, almost silent in the night.

He pauses in the half-lit hallway, slightly thrown. It was inevitable, he supposes, but hearing Theo cry is still an odd experience and it makes something ache in Blaise that he didn’t know existed.

It’s stilted and shuddering, like he’s trying very hard to stifle it, even if there’s nobody around to hear except Blaise. He pauses outside the door, fingers curling around the handle, but he doesn’t enter. He presses his ear to the thick wood and stays, listening to deep sobs wrack his body while he struggles to hold it in, and it makes Blaise wonder how many nights he’s lain in the dark while silent tears spill down his face next door.

He wants to enter, but wouldn’t know what to say. It’s a strange feeling, the yearning, the wanting to do something, anything, even if it’s just taking his hand, but knowing it won’t be enough. Silently, Blaise wonders who he’s missing, maybe his mother or his fiancée, or whether he’s just mourning his own doomed life.

Blaise takes his hand away from the door and walks back to his own room, head swimming with rough hands, pale skin, and blood gracing a smile, cynical even in death.

* * *

They dine together, like they always do. Theo remains as calm and professional as any assassin and Blaise can’t help thinking that if he had a chance of surviving, he’d do well if he made it his full-time career. If he wasn’t a Lord, of course. He wonders if, in a different world, they could have been friends.

He’s easy to talk to, words light even when they’re weighted, and he’s fascinating. Every once in a while he throws something vulgar into their smooth flow of conversation, or gives an ungainly laugh, and even though Blaise is no princess (he’s had the blood of children on his hands before, for gods sakes) Theo leaves him a little dizzy.

“So,” Theo says, taking a sip of his milk. It’s in a wine glass and Blaise has already spent a solid 5 minutes scoffing about it while Theo sits unabashed. “How’d you get into the business? Family thing?”

Blaise shrugs. “Yes and no.”

“Ambiguous. Come on Blaise, work with me. As much as I enjoy your air of mystery, I’m bored and curious. What’s your villain backstory?”

With a smirk, he balances his glass (filled with wine, not fucking milk) on his crossed legs while the butler clears their plates. “Villain is a harsh word, don’t you think?”

“You kill people for a living.” He shrugs, the movement ungainly over his narrow shoulders.

“But as you said—it’s for a living. I say why not, what when somebody else would inevitably do the same job anyway. I might as well get paid for it.”

“Fair enough. Isn’t it a bit of a high-risk job?”

“Pays well. Keeps my mother living more than comfortably. What more could I ask for in the mess of an economy we live in these days?”

“I don’t know, but I would have thought some stability would be nice. Or do you enjoy the adrenaline?”

Blaise considers. If he’s honest, it’s not something he’s bothered think about before, not when he lives his days as they come. He’s well aware that he could get caught on an assignment, could be executed. But it’s as if he has anything to live for. “It keeps things exciting.”

“I’ll imagine.”

“I can’t say I chose the career though.”

“How, then? It’s as if the Dark Lord advertises the guild on flyers. I’ve always been curious as to how one gets themselves into the business.”

Blaise takes a second to lean back and survey the boy in front of him, who’s sucking on a dessert spoon, hints of a pink tongue flicking out to get every speck of chocolate off of it. He’s got the haughty profile of a typical noble, with one eyebrow arched, but there’s a clear boyish amusement radiating off him as well. It might be something to do with the artlessly tousled hair spilling over his forehead as usual.

“My mother was one of the ones that made a mistake. They pick their assassins very carefully, as you can probably imagine. I had the privilege to be hand-picked lest they take my life, and my mother’s.”

“Dramatic, much,” Theo pulls that infernal spoon out of his mouth with a pop. He’s grateful that Theo doesn’t try apologising or offering pity or whatever, because in the end, Theo’s the one who’s going to die, not him.

“It’s not all bad. I’m really very good at it.”

“I can imagine. Inherited talent?”

And Blaise actually startles at that, the clink of his own spoon the only indication.

“I would imagine so, yes,” he replies, evenly.

“Mrs Zabini is quite the legend. Ever the charmer—but with that many husbands, one has to wonder.”

“Do they talk, then? The Lords and the Ladies?”

“They talk about everyone and everything. It’s light, mostly, but with you sitting here looking the splitting image with a knife in your hands? It’s not hard to imagine.”

The ghost of a smile flutters over Blaise’s lips.

* * *

They’re supposed to be training again, this time with etiquette (which is redundant, considering his upbringing, but customary). Theo’s just learned how to read a map (which seems simple, but when it comes to blueprints and floorplans, is a lot harder than it looks) and they’ve taken a small break to freshen up.

Theo is early, which is unusual. Blaise has become used to Theo’s tardiness by now, and while he’s supposed to be a mentor, he can’t find it within himself to complain about it.

He’s sitting in the corner of the library, a piece of paper in front of him with blotchy scribbles from a quill over the first few lines. His shoulders are heaving and Blaise frowns, thinking he’s crying.

He’s not crying, or at least not completely. There’s a slightly wild look in his eyes as he laughs to himself in steady waves, wracking him with a spasm then dying away as he catches his breath.

“What’s wrong with you?” snaps Blaise, because he’s a little confused and a little concerned and doesn’t know how else to react.

“Oh, nothing at all,” he says airily, but there’s a definite strain in it, like he’s spitting the words out.

Blaise looks down to his ink-splattered hands, nails bitten to ungainly stubs. Strange. Blaise has never seen him bite his nails before and it seems an improper habit that the upper class tend to stamp out before the age of six. “What’s all this?”

Theo’s handwriting is little more than an awful scrawl and Blaise thinks he can make out the numbers among the mess of working out.

_43 days_

_1032 hours_

_61920 minutes_

_3715200 seconds_

“What the fuck does this mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asks, tone scathing even though Blaise can definitely hear a hysterical waver in it now. “43 days. 1032 hours. 61920 minutes. 3715200 seconds, as of this morning. Less now. And if an average human’s heart beats at 60 beats per minute, mine’s got approximately three million seven hundred and fifteen thousand two hundred beats left. Which seems like a lot but—”

“Theo,” he says carefully. “Theo, what the fuck?”

“That’s another 4 heat beats gone,” he replies in a sing-song voice.

“Fucking hell, get yourself together. You’ve got a job to do. We’re skipping the etiquette course, and you’re going to the training room. Now.”

“Can’t I go outside, Blaise?”

“No.”

“Please? I’m going mad in here.”

“You know the rules. You could be seen. Besides, it’s not even been two weeks.”

Theo looks at him beseechingly, all long-lashes and pouting lips. There’s undeniably something there that he’s been repressing for a while, something unstable and something that could crack. “Two weeks is currently a third of my remaining lifespan.”

And when he’s right, when he’s got just over a month to live, and when he’s looking at Blaise _like that,_ it’s hardly like he can refuse.

They sit on the balcony together, knees not quite touching. Theo tries liquor for the first time and retches at the first sting of alcohol hitting the back of his throat and Blaise laughs.

He gets shoved playfully and he shoves him back, before taking a long swing of the liquor. It tastes like piss, but it goes straight to his head and he doesn’t even complain when Theo stretches out languidly, leaning into him with a sigh.

He tells a joke, something stupid and dark about a horse and a headless rider, and Blaise snorts a laugh and cards a hand through his hair without thinking about it.

“How old _are_ you?” he asks, in apparent wonder.

Blaise’s eyes knot in confusion. “Nineteen. Why?”

He’s not entirely sure why Theo’s eyes widen and his jaw drops.

“Do I look old?”

“Ancient.”

“Watch it pretty boy.”

“You think I’m pretty?” he teases, looking up at Blaise from half-lowered eyelids and a smirk carved into his lips.

Blaise refuses to blush. “I’m prettier.”

* * *

There’s a knock on his door, which is odd. Theo’s never bothered him after they’ve retired to their quarters before. Blaise is acutely aware he’s only in his breeches as he goes to open the door, but the summer night is hot, and he can’t summon the energy to put a shirt on.

“Theodore.”

He’s not wearing a shirt either, and Blaise gulps, trying not to make it obvious that his gaze keeps traitorously skittering down that slim, leanly muscled chest.

“Wanna fuck?” he asks, nonchalantly.

Blaise manages to stop himself from choking at the last second. “Aren’t you engaged?”

“It was arranged,” he leans against Blaise’s doorframe, apparently unabashed in his bare torso and low-hanging breeches. Hell, Blaise can even see the beginnings of a dark trail leading down from his navel. “All Lords have their marriages arranged. But she gets killed all the same if I don’t kill Prince Dumbledore, and maybe I don’t love her like I love my mother, but she doesn’t deserve it, you know?”

A harsh laugh, slightly wild, escapes Blaise’s throat. “A lot of people don’t deserve it but it happens anyway. Why the fuck are you so selfless?”

“Well,” his lips arch upwards. “It’s a little secret of mine involving basic human empathy and a smidge of little to no regard for my own life.”

“That’s not true.”

“I’ve come to terms with it now; it’s like I’ve got anything to live for. So. Wanna fuck?” he repeats.

“Are you normally this forwards?” asks Blaise, amused, although he’s mostly stalling for time while he’s panicking inside.

“Nah. Only when I’m supposed to die in two weeks. I want a shag. I mean, you can always tell me to piss off and I’ll go hit on the butler or something, but—” he leans further on the doorframe, loose breeches dipping impossibly lower on his hips. “But I thought you might be interested. Besides, I like it up the arse.”

 _Fuck._ Blaise grits his teeth and tries very hard to focus on Theo’s face, and Theo’s face alone. Not that it’s any better, not when that tongue of his flicks out to wet his lips. He’s beyond giving a shit—something’s hit him over the head, the realisation that he can do whatever the fuck he wants now because nothing really matters not when he’s _going to die—_

“I’m supposed to be your teacher. Your mentor,” says Blaise, weakly.

“So?” he says, blithely. “You’re teaching me to kill people, it’s hardly like this is the most morally ambiguous thing you’ve ever done.” His voice takes on a more bitter tone. “Besides, you said so yourself. The first thing you ever said to me was _you’re going to die._ ”

“You never know. You might not.” And Blaise’s voice actually breaks at the end. And goddammit and goddamn everything, because Theo knows that he’s one of Blaise’s rare weaknesses.

“Like hell I’m not,” he scoffs. “And we both know it, Blaise.”

There’s a silence, while Theo stands in the dark doorway, half-assertive, half-hopeless. Blaise shuts his eyes and he feels Theo’s breath ghosting against his cheek when the other boy takes three steps forwards so they’re sharing the same breath. It’s warm, and slightly shaky, and very much alive, and Blaise wants very much.

The first touch of lips on lips could be mistaken for a sigh.

* * *

It’s odd because they’re both tragic and lost and have never felt this sort of basic closeness before, and maybe that’s what makes it special. All Blaise knows is that he wants too much.

The days stay the same as they were: Blaise calm, Theo steadily surlier and more sarcastic.

It’s the nights that are for falling apart, whether it’s with Theo making the most beautiful noises when he comes undone under him, all lean lines and breathless gasps, sharp sighs that leave Blaise wanting more and more and _too much_ , or whether it’s afterwards, when Theo’s sleeping, still, and Blaise slips out and slumps on the balcony and lets tears stream down his face for the first time in over a decade.

He could be already dead as Blaise leans over on one arm and sees him lying there, pale skin bleeding into the silk on the pillows, grey in the early morning light. He doesn’t bruise either, and Blaise knows because he’s tried. The little red marks on his skin that show him _he’s still alive goddammit_ are always gone before morning, and Theo looks otherworldly.

His pallor stands out against Blaise’s dark fingers as they run along his collarbone, feeling for his heartbeat, almost surprised and filled with heady relief to find it still there. It jumps beneath Blaise’s fingers, and he has to turn away to swallow down a wave of emotion. He’s torn between shaking him awake, just to confirm he’s really, truly, still alive, and letting him stay asleep where it’s kindest.

“Hey,” says Theo, voice raspy.

“Theo,” replies Blaise, and it sounds brittle, like a final, hopeless plea or the last words unsaid when the body’s already 6 feet under. So he says it again, softer. “Theo.”

“What’s the time?”

“Nearly dawn.”

“250,000. Approximately.”

“What?”

“Heartbeats,” he says nonchalantly, fixing Blaise with a disarmingly wide stare that makes him look so earnest and so young and makes Blaise want to hold him forever. “But I might have more than that.”

“Oh? Finally found something to live for?”

“Nah.”

 _For me. Stay for me._ Blaise chokes his words down and curls his fingers in Theo’s. “Fine, then. Found a way you’re going to live anyway?”

“Nah. I’m definitely dead but I might have more than two hundred and fifty thousand heartbeats left.” He gives a goofy little smile that brings a sparkle to his eyes and Blaise swallows the strong feeling threatening to engulf him again. “Because you make my heart beat faster.”

“You’re a fucking sap.”

“Ah, well,” he rolls over and smiles a little, long lashes brushing the tops of his cheekbones. “You stop caring when it doesn’t matter what you say anymore.”

* * *

“Twenty-eight thousand,” whispers Theo, and Blaise doesn’t say anything, just sits up and runs his fingers down every bump on his spine, committing every detail to memory, because soon, that’s all he’ll be.

Theo is built to be forgettable. Pretty, but not overly so. Eloquent, but just enough to be engaging in the moment. Important, but only as much as it matters in a fleeting comment.

But Blaise feels like Theo’s the only anchor to his mortal life, the only line keeping him holding on and it burns and rushes all at once, and he doesn’t know how he can take it, doesn’t know how he can sit there impassive when he feels so much, too much. It’s like an electric current or a river cascading through his mind—he feels like he should be on fire, screaming, holding onto him so tightly he might break—but he just sits in stillness.

“You know,” Theo says softly, not taking his eyes away from the blank wall. “When I first met you, I thought you looked immortal. Like a god.”

Shakily, he takes a deep breath and leans back into Blaise’s touch, so warm and soft in his arms, even if he’s bony and thin. The moonlight and the creeping orange candlelight from under the door weave together in a sea of bronze and silver spills over the drying tear tracks on his cheeks. Blaise wants to kiss it all away.

“But then you laughed. Then you started smiling when I smiled and suddenly you looked so, so young. Do you remember? That day on the balcony, when I asked you how old you were?”

“Yeah,” Blaise’s voice comes out thick. “You were so surprised, for some reason.”

“You shouldn’t be 19, Blaise. That’s too young. You’re timeless, you should be timeless, and nothing should matter to you. And suddenly, you’re just a kid too, killing people for work, but you’re so _young_ and I don’t understand anything anymore. And you looked at me like I meant something more than a life. And it wasn’t just when you smiled; it’s when I leaned in for a kiss—”

Blaise’s mouth falls open a little and he feels his mouth widen and his world narrow to _Theo_ when the boy tips his head forwards until they’re suddenly sharing the same air. With a lost air, his hands drift over his sides, skittish, shaking, like there’s something there he might break, even if he’s fucked him before, so hard he couldn’t walk straight the next day.

“See? You’re doing it again,” whispers Theo, fingers skimming his jaw. Blaise’s pulse flutters under his touch, but he leans away again, leaving Blaise grasping at the thin line stretched between them. “Your eyes are all wide and—”

Blaise kisses him, and it’s desperate because he really needs Theo to _shut up, shut up, shut up,_ because it’s going to hurt so bad when he’s gone, he’s going to take a part of Blaise with him whether he wanted to or not, and Blaise will never be able to lie in the embrace of the night again without feeling like there’s something missing.

Because he’s gone and done the one thing his mother told him to never do—and he can’t tell Theo to shut the hell up because it _hurts_ to stop making it worse and making him think about it _,_ because the boy he loves is going to die in the morning.

“Theo,” he half-sobs, barely a rush of a kiss in the dark. He carves out his heart and offers it to him freely because it’s not like he could have ever kept it anyway. “Theo, I love you.”

And no matter what the hell Theo says, nothing really matters because he feels so, so fragile and over a thousand years old and doesn’t think he’ll feel any other way once he’s gone.


End file.
